


If You Must Play

by K9Lasko



Category: NCIS
Genre: Career Ending Injury, Drama, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-02 17:24:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6575281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K9Lasko/pseuds/K9Lasko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you must play, decide upon three things at the start:<br/>1. The rules of the game;<br/>2. The stakes;<br/>3. The quitting time.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Must Play

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PhoenixRising360](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixRising360/gifts).



> Thank you for your patience, dear Shay. This is all for you. Hoping you find some enjoyment in it.
> 
> Season 13 themes. Some stuff draws directly from 13.2 "Personal Day." As usual, a creative reimagining. :)

How low are you willing to go  
Before you reach all your selfish goals  
Punchline after punchline  
Leaving us sore.

 

\+ + +

  

A beautiful spring Friday, that's when it happened.  Just after lunch and just after Tony finished telling McGee an off-color joke featuring an attorney, a doctor, and an arms dealer all walking into a bar together and all ending up very dead together in three grossly improbable ways.  

 

"You have a sick sense of humor, Tony. That's not even funny--"

 

"Yeah, well that's the punchline."

 

"What's the punchline?"

 

"The punchline is that there's no punchline."  

 

They got to the intersection.  The light was green, and the friendly walking man was lit up, welcoming them into the brightly painted crosswalk.  Tim lagged behind, perhaps still working out the details of Tony's joke.

 

Tony didn’t see the car.  The driver didn't see Tony, either,  _or_ the red light, and between that and trying to calm a screaming baby in the backseat, the end result was fairly predictable.  The old Buick's bumper tagged him just below the knee while the windshield caught the rest of him. When human-reaction-time finally caught up with the situation, brakes were applied.  Hard.  Tires squelched against dry pavement as the hunk of metal came to an abrupt halt, allowing Tony to slide down and off the hood with comic slowness.  When he came back to himself through a muzzy haze, Tony stared up at the clear blue sky -- dazed and shook up and numb.  He heard a baby's cries and a woman cursing loudly in Spanish and another familiar voice, placating her and talking rapidly about...  He couldn't follow it.  He asked aloud, "Am I dead?"

 

Tim knelt over him, his body blocking the sun from Tony's eyes, and assured him:  "You're not dead."  Good old Tim, he kept his eyes studiously pointed away from Tony's right leg -- the one that was bent in a place that shouldn't be bent.  "You don't want to look.  Believe me."

 

Tony tried to look.

 

"Please _don't look_ ," Tim begged, putting a hand on Tony's chest and encouraging him to _stay down_. 

 

Now he _had to look_.  

 

There wasn't any pain up to that moment, but after he looked, well -- it all caught up with him, the pain.  He choked on a word that might have been a colorful combo of both "shit" and "fuck," and he begged himself not to vomit all over the asphalt, or on himself, or on good old Tim -- loyal right down to the bone.  The bone...  Shattered bone.  Tony twisted against the concrete, and the gagging began in earnest.

 

All of it to the chorus of McGee's frenetic voice:  "I told you not to look!"

 

\+ + +

 

**1\. THE RULES OF THE GAME;**

 

_Thump… clunk.  Thump… clunk.  Thump…_

 

A pause.

 

_Clunk.  Thump… clunk.  Thump…_

 

Another pause and a heavy sigh.

 

Gibbs waited at the kitchen table, nursing a mug of tar-black coffee, piping hot.  He shook out a fresh page of _The Washington Post_  and adjusted the reading glasses perched on his nose.  The racket coming from the stairway was expected and had become something of a routine over the past week.

 

_Clunk.  Thump… clunk._

 

When Tony finally reached the last step and managed to haul himself over to the kitchen table, he sat heavily on the chair opposite Gibbs.  It was his usual morning post as of late, a place he could regroup in relative peace.  Gibbs never endeavored to harass him with small-talk and good morning pleasantries; he just wasn't the type.  One of the crutches fell over onto the floor, and Tony flinched at the loud crack when it hit the wood.  “Sorry,” he mumbled, hoping it hadn't left a mark.

 

Unmoved, Gibbs kicked-off the morning’s conversation the same way he had for the past six days.  “Couch is still available, DiNozzo.  I can sleep upstairs.”

 

To which Tony replied, predictably, stubbornly:  “I'm okay in the guest room.”

 

Gibbs inclined his head before he folded the newspaper and set it aside.  He then pushed two pills and a glass of orange juice toward Tony’s side of the table.  “You look like shit.”

 

And Tony did look like shit.  He twisted his lips into some wry semblance of a grin.  He was still stubbornly bruised by that Buick's windshield, and there was that bum right leg.  The hulking cast stretched well above his knee and it had become his constant, cumbersome companion.  He had raccoon circles under his eyes.  Something kept him up at night.  Nagging pain, more than likely.  Fusing broken bones was no small task.  “Thanks, Boss,” Tony mumbled, still halfway asleep.  He grabbed for the pills and downed them with a gulp of OJ.  “And thank you to the gods of pharmaceuticals.” 

 

There was no fuss over the pills.  The pain was a bitch.  A vindictive, uncompromising bitch.  He'd do anything to dull it for a couple hours, even if that meant a doped up, delirious haze.

 

“Better eat something,” Gibbs said.  He got up and went to the oven.  Over the past six days of making breakfast for DiNozzo, he’d learned it was impossible to predict how quickly the man could thump-clunk down those damn stairs, so he’d started leaving the plate in the oven to keep it warm.

 

Their scripted morning chatter continued, on repeat, with Tony saying:  “Aw, Boss, you made me a hot breakfast.”  And with Gibbs replying: “Not much for cooking.” 

 

Gibbs set the plate down in front of him.  Same thing, different morning.  A piece of toast, two sausage links, and two eggs over easy — all of it cooked with Marine precision.  The sausage was browned on all sides, and the toast was evenly buttered and perfectly toasted, and the eggs…  well, they weren’t scrambled, which was how Tony preferred them.  And Gibbs knew that.  He had to, at this point.  "Eat," he instructed.

 

“The eggs aren’t scrambled,” Tony remarked.

 

Gibbs drank his coffee.  “Do I look like your mother, DiNozzo?”

 

"My mother was a lot prettier than you are.  And a much better cook."

 

With a chuckle and a smirk, Gibbs tipped his mug to his snarky house guest before taking another long and bitter chug of the coffee.   _Touché_ _, DiNozzo..._

 

But Tony watched the eggs and waited for what he knew would happen next.  This routine had solidified into something they both could depend on, and perhaps outsiders would have called it "cute," but both of them found a weird thrill in the game.  Tony kept waiting, and sure enough, Gibbs took the plate and took the fork, and he mashed the eggs into bits and pieces.  Then he pushed it back Tony’s way.  

 

“Scrambled," he announced.  Not exactly scrambled, but... Beggars, choosers.  "Happy?"

 

“You know just the touch,” Tony said.

 

Gibbs rolled his eyes and stood up, heading for the sink.  The sound of metal fork on ceramic plate assured him that his temporary charge was finally tucking into a good breakfast.

 

Soon, the meds would kick in, and Tony would end up either blissfully stoned on the couch, staring at his own hands, or mildly agitated and restless.  It was hard to tell what bizarre DiNozzo-on-painkillers behavior the day’s meds would bring, but Gibbs tried to be out of the house and well on his way to work before things got to that point.  DiNozzo could fix his own damn lunch.  His leg was broke, not his arms.  No sense spoiling the kid.  He'd be back on his own soon enough.

 

After these six long days, Tony could probably fare well enough in his own place in spite of the obvious disability, but for some reason Tony lingered.  Ducky had suggested a couple days of R & R at Casa de Gibbs, and Gibbs had miraculously relented (not without some arm-twisting).  And well, Tony _always_ enjoyed the company and Gibbs… Gibbs wasn’t much for conversation these days, with _anyone_ , let alone with Tony.  Either way, Gibbs hadn't said no.  The "couple days" had progressed into a few days which had further progressed into nearly a week.  Tony seemed right at home.  Comfortable, even, with all of his clumsy thumping around and attempting to be mindful of his bathroom habits -- _Leave it cleaner than you found it, DiNozzo!_   -- and then there was basement-time, boat-time, which was sacred for Gibbs and to which Tony had not exactly been invited.  So for the most part, they moved around each other as well as they could, got along as well as they could, and basically tolerated each other as well as they could.  No blood had been let, figurative or literal...

 

...yet...

 

...which was saying something.

 

"Vance called me up late yesterday afternoon," Gibbs suddenly said.

 

Tony cocked his head, still chewing.  This was off-script.  "Yeah?"

 

"He's been trying to call you on your cell.  You never answer.  Wondering how you're doin'.  Tells me he misses your... panache.  His words."  Gibbs smiled, rarely.

  

Tony returned a sort-of smile.  "I already know what it's about." 

 

"What's it about then?"

 

Tony spoke through a mouth full of half-masticated fried egg:  "It's a whole lot about nothin'."

 

Gibbs let the subject drop.

 

\+ + +

 

_Six days previously._

 

“I was thinking, Jethro,” Ducky said while elbows’ deep in the intestines of an unfortunate petty officer, “Anthony is being released from the hospital this afternoon, and as his general physician, I’d very much like to see him with some supervision, at least for the first day or two.”

 

Gibbs grunted in acknowledgment, yet he seemed oblivious to Ducky’s coded suggestion.

 

“I went to see him, and he seems a bit depressed.  You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?” Ducky asked.

 

“No, Duck, haven’t made it over there—“

 

“Oh wow, this is most interesting,” Ducky interrupted as he examined a portion of the intestine.  “Palmer, what do you think this is?”

 

“Some sort of lipoma?” Jimmy answered.  "I'd say?"

 

“Exactly.  Fascinating.”  Then Ducky looked up at Gibbs and gave him a good stare.  “That works perfectly then.  I’ll have McGee tell Tony that you’ll be picking him up around four o’clock this afternoon.  I know Timothy was going to take some time to go there and say hello during lunch.  Everybody has been taking the time.”  It was amazing how cutting Ducky could be while still remaining incredibly polite.  “Everybody, except for you.”

 

“Been a little busy here, Duck.  Work’s got to get done.”

 

“So I’ve heard.”  He addressed Jimmy: “Mr Palmer, would you be so kind as to make some notations in that file?”  Then he switched seamlessly back to Gibbs: “I should let Tim know to stop by Anthony’s place to pack up some personal items?”

 

Gibbs moved to answer, but stopped himself short.  Ducky may have asked a question, but his posture and tone suggested it was more statement of fact, and the way the old man stood there now, gore up to his elbows and with that bloody scalpel still in hand…  There were very few personalities that could give Jethro Gibbs pause.

 

“Don’t you think it’s well past time to bury that particular hatchet?” Ducky said.  "What are you two even on each other about?  Do you even remember?"

 

"Don't know where you got that idea from," Gibbs said.  "We're fine."

 

"Oh, bother. You--"  Ducky looked off at where Palmer had disappeared.  "And make copies, Mr Palmer! Copies!"

 

Gibbs stayed quiet and only offered his friend a heavy stare.

 

Ducky smiled genially, “I can’t find any evidence of foul play here.  I’m happy to say today's guest died of a previously unknown heart condition.  I’m sure you’ll be able to finish the paperwork well before 3:30.”  He peeled off the gloves and headed for the sink.  “Your duties, Jethro: Make sure he takes any and all prescribed medication.  Make sure he regularly eats something nutritious.  Make sure he doesn’t trip over those crutches and crack his head open.  Hm?”

 

"Need me to hold his hand and tell him to look both ways before crossing the street, too?"  Gibbs growled, tone sardonic.  “He can take care of himself, Duck.  He’s somehow made it this long.”

 

“Of that I have no doubt.  It’s _you_ I’m not entirely sure about.  I think you could use all the help you can get.”  Ducky smiled cheerily.  “I’ll send Palmer up with my report.  Where _are_ you with those copies, Mr Palmer!"  He turned to Gibbs in exasperation.  "Sometimes I swear the corpses in here show a bit more liveliness than he does."

 

"Ah, don't be so hard on him," Gibbs said.

 

Ducky raised a brow.  "I could say the same to you, old friend."

 

Gibbs made a face.  "About Palmer?"

 

"No.  About Anthony."

 

\+ + +

 

Back in Gibbs’ kitchen, Tony said, “Guess I’ll see you sometime tonight?”  He watched Gibbs wash up the frying pan.  He was gazing out the window, lost in that deep look of Gibbs-thought.

 

It was Saturday morning, and Gibbs often worked the weekends.  Always work to be done.  Reports to review.  Old cases to page through.  Bishop would probably be there, too.  She’d taken on the job as her new spouse, and it had quickly become her life.  Gibbs’ efforts to warn her off that particular path hadn’t panned out.  Sometimes experience was the only teacher one could learn from.  Then again, maybe the job was a spouse she could live with.

 

Tony didn’t mind the solitude of Gibbs’ house.  Actually, he’d grown to like it.  He enjoyed the quiet of the residential neighborhood.  He could open up the windows and listen to the dogs bark and the kids play in their backyards.  He could drag himself out onto the front porch and sit in the spring breeze and the sunshine and watch the occasional bicyclist or soccer mom in spandex pass by, with or without a Labrador.  And when late afternoon came, it brought with it school buses and kids towing around heavy backpacks, teenagers shooting hoops down in the nearby cul-de-sac, and the smell of grills firing up.  There were smiling faces, exhausted after busy days, coming home to love and laughter.

 

It was kind of nice, the simple domesticity of it — and sometimes he wondered how a guy like Gibbs could even stand it anymore.  Gibbs and his sort-of new yet sort-of regressive attitude, as dark and cold and hopeless as he’d ever been.  Maybe because he never spent much time at all at home, maybe that made it tolerable, living here surrounded by the “American dream” or at least one myopic interpretation of it.

 

But Tony couldn't judge.  He'd made his own choices--most of them wrong, in hindsight.  The alternatives could have brought even him closer to something like this.  A steady relationship and a couple kids.  BBQ and homework in the evenings.  Stuff like that.  Or maybe not even that.  Just something stable and reliable.  Happiness, maybe.  Something, or somebody, to fall back on.  Something, or somebody, to look forward to.  It wasn’t regret he felt.  Not exactly.  He watched life from the periphery.  He didn't compare himself with these family people -- he saw himself apart from them, incapable of making for himself whatever these people had.  It wasn't regret...

 

Or maybe it was, if he quit lying to himself.  He had to quit lying to himself.  He had to realize the apathy existed before he could figure out what to do about it.  And what new choices he had to make.  Hard choices.

 

“No,” Gibbs suddenly answered the question, and it was so jarring, it almost made Tony jump.  “Gonna stay here today.  Been meaning to work on the flower beds.”

 

Tony raised a brow from where he continued to sit, awkwardly leaning against the table and stubbornly ignoring the subtle throbbing pain of his entire body.  “Flower beds” was a term he never thought he’d hear out of Gibbs’ mouth, ever.  “Flower beds,” Tony repeated, not without some teasing good humor.

 

“Yeah, DiNozzo.  Place doesn’t take care of itself.”  He then disappeared upstairs and reappeared in jeans and a t-shirt.  He grabbed his truck keys and tossed out, “Need mulch.”  Then he was gone.

 

“Mulch,” Tony repeated to an empty house. 

 

Slowly, he began to feel the narcotics work their evil magic.  The pain began to recede to something somewhat manageable, so Tony struggled to his feet—foot, rather.  The crutches dug under his arms as he thump-hopped to the living room couch.  He draped himself across it and stared at the ceiling, breathing in and out slowly and marveling at the finging feeling overtaking his fingers.  "Finging fingers..." he muttered.

 

He shut his eyes and wondered if Gibbs was more of a pansy or a marigold guy. 

 

\+ + +

 

**2\. THE STAKES;**

  

Soulful crooning from a radio with fuzzy reception wafted through an open window, along with the breeze, thick with the heady stink of fresh mulch.  It woke Tony with a start, and for a moment, he didn't realize where he was.  And soon he wondered how the hell he’d ended up here, on Gibbs’ couch.  Outside the window, metal clanged against metal, and after there was the sound of scooping.  Tony groaned and turned onto his side.  The clunky cast brought him out of dreamland and fully back to his head.  Reality flooded in, ruthlessly.  (He was at Gibbs' place.  His leg was broken.  He probably wouldn't get his job back, but he didn't even know if he wanted it anymore.  What did he want?)  He stared at the ceiling; everything felt blurred and strangely muted.  His teeth were fuzzy and in need of a brushing, and he had to take a piss, but the thought of accomplishing any of these basic tasks — hobbling into the half-bath, balancing himself in front of Gibbs' pristine toilet, and praying to god he didn’t whiz all over that same toilet — felt monumental.

 

He’d only just woken up from an hours’ long nap, but he already felt like he needed another one.  Maybe it was just the process of growing older and fatter — add to that the seriously busted leg and a body and ego covered in bruises, well… It went without saying, and he needed to be realistic these days.  Needed to stay realistic for what he knew was coming.  The Big Change.  He'd thought about it even before he'd been hit by that Buick.

 

He ought to just go back home.  Lick his wounds in peace and loneliness.  Piss all over his own toilet seat, with impunity.  Burn himself on his own stove while juggling crutches and a frying pan, at least his eggs would be properly scrambled, just how he liked them.  Lie on his own couch and wonder what the fuck he was gonna do with himself for the duration, what he was gonna do with himself after he finally talked to Vance about that _thing_ he knew was going to be brought up.  That pesky eventuality.

 

The doc had said six to eight weeks in the cast, and that was being hopeful.  After that, a re-evaluation of both his knee and the hardware presently holding his bones together like some kind of macabre, three dimensional jigsaw puzzle -- and then possibly (probably) a second surgery.  Seeing that x-ray had been a trip— his right leg beneath the knee had looked like Frankenstein’s Monster.  Jimmy had awkwardly attempted to make him feel better about it by commenting on how he’d always be setting metal detectors off.  Tony was still trying to figure out how that should make him feel better, but with Jimmy Palmer, you could never tell.  And it _was_ kind of funny...

 

Then, there would be the weeks of physical therapy, probably headed up by someone too chipper for their own good.  And after that?  He heard the doc loud and clear: _None of this is a guarantee, Tony._ The doc also said he should be using a wheelchair, and  _not_ dragging himself up and down staircases with only the aid of crutches.  

 

The door suddenly slammed shut, and Gibbs made his way to the kitchen, his t-shirt sweat-stained and pieces of mulch hanging off of him.

 

Tony's eyes followed him.  “Your bathroom is too far from the couch,” he announced.

 

A cabinet opened and closed, and then the refrigerator’s ice machine started to churn and grind, spitting a few cubes into a glass.  “Better get up and start moving then!” Gibbs suggested.  After that, he passed Tony by and disappeared outside again.

 

 

\+ + +

 

Gibbs waved at a neighbor while he steadily shoveled yet another load of mulch into his old wheelbarrow.  It was an unusually warm spring day, and he’d worked up a sweat.  He put the shovel down and wiped his brow with his shirt sleeve.  Then he looked up at the oaks and maples, just now starting to bud out in new and vibrant green.  The daffodils were already up, and the tulips, too, and soon they’d be in full bloom. 

 

He pushed the wheelbarrow around the house and into the backyard.  He was almost finished with the beds out back, and as he cleared out the leaf litter and the other organic detritus left behind by winter, he noticed several other plants were coming back.  Gently, he spread the dark mulch around the fragile sprouts of green.  New life, new season. 

 

He found himself smiling as he leaned back on his haunches and looked out over the yard.  Sometimes he forgot how much he loved it back here.  The tall hedge that lined the north side, the rock garden that had since gone a bit fallow, the hardy turf grass, the mature trees, and the flower beds.  He could remember Shannon with a wide-brimmed sun hat on her head, moving through the garden in the height of summer — always doing something: weeding, pruning, watering.  She was into that; he wasn’t.  He’d mow the grass, trim the hedge, and spread the mulch, but when it came to nurturing, well… Sometimes he failed at that.  What now remained after years of neglect was something a little bit wild, yet still somehow beautiful.

 

It didn’t hurt as much anymore.  His fading memory of them was more like a dull ache.  Always there, but less crippling. 

 

His eyes caught movement on the patio, and he saw DiNozzo there, hobbling doggedly with a platter precariously balanced in one hand.  On the platter he could make out two glasses brimming with iced-something.  Annoyed, Gibbs let out a sigh and muttered to himself: “What are you doin’, DiNozzo.”  He got up to intercept him before he could trip and make a mess of himself or the patio.

 

“Oh hey, Boss!” Tony grinned while Gibbs relieved him of the platter.  “Thought you might be hungry, so…”

 

Gibbs looked doubtfully at the hastily slapped together cold cheese sandwiches.

 

Tony’s grin turned a bit sheepish.  “Kinda hard to use both hands while propping myself up, you know, and well… I hope you like cheese sandwiches.”  He swayed a bit.

 

Quickly setting the platter aside, Gibbs took Tony by the arm and helped ease him down into a sit on the patio steps.  Then he put the platter between them and sat down as well, grabbing for one of the sandwiches.

 

“Beautiful,” Tony observed as he squinted out over the backyard with a faint smile.

 

“Wouldn’t go that far,” Gibbs said through a large mouthful cheese and bread.  Some crumbs fell onto the patio steps as he chewed.  He then took one of the glasses and gave it a doubtful look.

 

“I found some Country Time Lemonade powder in your pantry.”  Tony shrugged his left shoulder only because the other one was throbbing.

 

Gibbs raised his brows and took a gulp.  Sweet, sour, and cold.  Good enough.  He took another bite and kept chewing.  “You’ll make a good wife for someone, DiNozzo.”

 

Laughing, Tony shook his head.  “Always were a charmer, Boss.”

 

They ate in silence.  Gibbs bolted the remainder of his food while Tony took his time, chewing the crusts off first before working his way inward.  After swallowing the last bite, gulping down more lemonade, and running a tongue over his teeth, Gibbs observed Tony’s measured approach to sandwich-consumption.  It was a sure sign of trouble.

 

So he bit the bullet: “You're not here just to eat all my food and piss on my toilet seat, are you.”

 

Tony gave him a look that clearly expressed: _Well, I guess you got me pretty well figured out, Boss._   He cleared his throat.  “I think it's time for a chat.”

 

Gibbs looked away and made a dismissive noise.  Birdsong filled the air, and he noticed two robins playing hopscotch in the grass.  Gibbs shut his eyes and enjoyed the breeze on his face.  Baggage.  That’s what Tony wanted to leave at his door.  That's what he always wanted to leave.  (Sometimes actual baggage--in the form of an empty garment bag gathering dust in the upstairs closet.)  Gibbs didn't want to chat.  He didn't want to have a talk.  He didn't want to delve into Tony's messed-up head and figure out his motives or lack thereof.  The guy was too confusing, too often mercurial -- all over the place and a far cry from Gibbs' own brand of slow and steady, which was the way Tony ought to be shaping up after all these years beside him.  No, there'd be no tempering that spark in Tony.  Funny, but that's why Gibbs chose him in the first place.  He'd never seen a guy so OFP who could still -- miraculously -- get the job done right. 

 

“It’s been almost a year,” Tony eased into the subject.

 

“Since?”

 

“Luke.  Daniel Budd.  Ned Dorneget.  Anything.  Everything.  Take your pick.”

 

Gibbs scoffed in annoyance at what he knew this would become.  It was just as he'd expected.  More unwelcome, probing questions into his state of mind.  “Ah, c'mon.  Not this again.”

 

“We need to talk about it.  We never did.”

 

“I don’t need—“

 

“I know you've been talking to Taft," Tony said, quick to interrupt.  "Sort of.  I know he's trying to get you to open up."

 

"Yeah, and who told you that."

 

"Taft did.  He's an okay guy, you know.  I kind of like him.  We commiserated over how much of a miserable pain-in-the-ass you are."

 

"That right?  And what did you get from that?"

 

"It's not your fault you're so bitter," Tony said.  "You can pick and choose how you dish that out to the team, but what you've picked and chosen isn't right or what they deserve."

 

Again, Gibbs scoffed, but afterward he challenged: "You doubting my ability to lead the team?"

 

"I'm doubting your ability to see things as objectively as you say you can."

 

“If that's all...” Gibbs stood up and stretched his cramping limbs.  "Thanks for lunch."  He limped back toward his wheelbarrow, dismissing the conversation.  He could feel Tony's eyes on him.  They burned into his back.

 

"Actually, that's not all," Tony called out after him.

 

Gibbs turned back around, frustration evident in his movement.  "You're really gonna fight me on this, DiNozzo?"

 

"Yeah, I am, Boss.  Remember when you told me to shut my trap about the whole Mitch thing?  Do you remember what you said to me?"

 

"I remember."

 

"Say it again then."

 

Gibbs complied.  "'Take care of your team.  Do your job.'  That's what I said."

 

"Say it again."

 

"What's this even about?" Gibbs snapped.

 

"It's about me doing exactly what you've told me to do.  Taking care of the team.  Doing my job."

 

"Great, then.  You've finally learned to listen."

 

"I need to know where your head's at, Gibbs," Tony demanded.

 

"I don't answer to you, Tony.  You don't 'need to know' anything, except how to shut your mouth and do what you're told without coming up with a damn question at every corner we get to."

 

"You're deflecting again."

 

"You playing some kind of mind game with me?"  Gibbs asked, sharply.  "Never thought you were the type."

 

Tony knew he'd hit a nerve, so he exploited it.  "Where's your head at, Gibbs?" he pressed.  "Is it on the job?  Is it on the team?  Is it on any of the cases we've been working on?"  He kept his eyes on Gibbs; he wouldn't let go of his attention.  "Or is it still over there?  In Iraq?  In Mexico?  In all those other places you lost bits and pieces of yourself?  Still stuck on something you can never make right?"

 

"Above your paygrade," Gibbs warned.

 

"I need to know where you stand."

 

Gibbs answered simply, "I stand with them.  With the team.  You know that."

 

"Good.  And I need to know they can depend on you -- one hundred percent of the time, not just most of the time -- especially now when I can't be there.  I won't be there to jog you out of memory lane.  They come to me, you know.  They come to me with all of their concerns about the job, and all of their concerns about you, too.  They're worried about you, because you've changed, and it's true.  You have changed.  I'm just trying to figure out if it's effecting your ability to do this job."

 

"You angling for my job, DiNozzo?  That what this is about?"

 

Gibbs' question -- made poisonous by its candid simplicity -- hung between them.

 

Finally, with absolute truth, Tony said, "You are such an asshole."

 

"Hey, I didn't bring it up."  If Gibbs was contrite, he sure didn't make any effort to show it.

 

"Why would I be doing that?  How can I?  Look at me!"  Tony dragged himself onto his one leg and gave Gibbs a healthy glare while his hand clutched the railing.  He wasn't about to take this shit sitting down.  "Reality check, Gibbs.  You're not the only one carrying this burden."

 

"Burden of _what_?"

 

"Looking out for them.  Like it or not, we built this team together.  You and me.  How many years has it been?  So I share this burden with you -- gladly, happily.  I don't want your fucking job, Gibbs.  I'm too busy putting out the fires you started."

 

"I never asked you--"

 

"You never had to." 

 

It began to sink in how genuinely disgruntled DiNozzo was, and Gibbs felt inconveniently surprised by that.  The inconvenience soon turned into annoyance -- at himself, surprisingly, and not at Tony.  "So why are you here then?  To rake me over the coals?  To point in my face and say, 'gotcha'?  What do you want from me?"

 

Tony weighed his words, and he considered what it would cost him to be honest, for once.  Finally, he said, "I want you to look me in the eye and tell me I did a good job.  Tell me none of this was wasted."

  

Gibbs let out a breath.  "You don't need that from me."

 

"I wanna hear it anyway."

 

"Job's not over yet."

 

Tony shook his head.  "No, it is over, Boss.  For me it is.  Been over for a long, long time.  Haven't you noticed?"  Slowly, he moved to sit back down, but got hung up somewhere along the way.  Gibbs grabbed him by the arm, and Tony accepted the help.  Just the effort it took to sit down had him breathing harder than usual.

 

Gibbs found himself staying crouched in front of him, his one hand loosely wrapped around Tony's elbow.  "You can get over this," he finally said.  "This is nothing for you."  Feeling Tony's heavy gaze on him, Gibbs made sure to meet his eyes.  "You will.  You'll see."

 

"Wish I could say I believe you anymore, Boss."  There was something strained in the way Tony looked at him.  Something despondent and dead, and it had nothing to do with a busted leg.  

 

"Okay, Tony."  Gibbs squeezed his elbow.  "Okay.  You wanna talk?  Let's talk."

  

\+ + +

 

**3\. THE QUITTING TIME;**

  

"Be real with me, doc," Tony said.  "Do you think I can re-qualify for field duty?"

 

"Too early to rule anything out," the doctor answered distractedly as he finished typing into the electronic chart.

 

"Give it to me straight," Tony pressed.

 

His orthopedic specialist was a young man, mid-thirties probably, with short-cropped blond hair and an abrupt, scientific way with both words and emotion.  That was something that seemed to extend into his bedside manner, which was preoccupied at best and dispassionate at worst.  He was the anti-Ducky, and to be frank, Tony had never wished to see the eccentric old man more than he did now, in this one moment -- his career, his life, perhaps even his sanity -- all of it resting on the whims of modern medicine and his own body's ability to heal.

 

"Or at least give it to me like I'm an actual human being here," Tony went on, a bit of sarcasm edging in.  "It's only my career on the line, but don't let that worry you."

 

The doctor paused, measuring his words, before he said, "The lab's prognostications by crystal ball are fairly inaccurate, so it's probably best not to ask me."

 

Slowly, Tony grinned.  "Did you just make a joke?"

 

"I did."

 

"So you aren't just a robot-doctor-Ken-doll," he teased. "For a while there, I was convinced."

 

The doctor looked at the ceiling and made a noise that could have been defined as a chuckle.  Then he pulled up a chair closer to his patient's bed and sat down.  "Look, you just had pretty extensive surgery done on that leg.  Let's give it some time.  We'll do the re-check, see what's going on, and from there, we can start making predictions.  I don't like giving answers without all of the facts, okay?  I've seen this kind of injury go both ways.  Like I said: Too early to rule anything out.  Are we good now?"

 

Tony nodded.  "Better."

 

\+ + +

 

"Thanks for the ride, McGoo."  Tony slowly dragged himself out of Tim's car.  He leaned against the open door and caught his breath before hopping toward the rear door to gather his bags of groceries, his crutches, and all the other stuff he'd had with him at Gibbs' place.

 

But Tim beat him to it.  He swung Tony's backpack over his own shoulder and pulled out the crutches and the groceries.  "Let me help you."

 

"No, I'm fine," Tony insisted. 

 

Together, they headed into Tony's condo block, but a sign posted on the elevator took the wind out of their sails.

 

**OUT OF ORDER.  PLEASE USE STAIRS.**

 

"Perfect," Tony commented.  "Just beautiful."

 

The two of them trudged into the stairwell and began the harrowing ascent up the first set of stairs.  Tim decided not to comment on the grateful hold Tony had on his arm as he did his clump-thumping jig, one step at a time.  Finally, when they made it to the top, they'd both broken a sweat and Tony breathed hard.  

 

"Maybe I'll just sleep in the hallway here," Tony moaned.  

 

But Tim rolled his eyes and practically hauled him the rest of the way to the front door and then into the apartment.  

 

Tony almost tripped over the single step that led to the living room.  He muttered, "Damn that step."

 

With twin gusting sighs of relief, they fell into the leather couch's embrace, and none was more thankful than Tony, who looked a bit pale and shaken.  He patted Tim twice on the knee.  "Thanks, buddy."

 

"Anytime," Tim replied.

 

They stared forward at the television, nothing but a black maw of emptiness.  The groceries sat abandoned on the rug, the frozen items slowly thawing.  The quiet was deafening.

 

"So," Tim decided to broach the subject that had been dogging him ever since he'd picked Tony up from Gibbs' driveway, "how was Gibbs?"

 

"You know," Tony mumbled out an answer, "I think he's finally coming around."

 

"You're kidding?"

 

There was a long pause.  Then Tony said, "Think I finally figured it out."  He rested his head back against the cushions and closed his eyes.

 

"Figured what out?"

 

"I'm the punchline.  This..."

 

"What are you talking about?"  Tim frowned.

 

Tony didn't answer.  The clock ticked.

 

"You want some dinner?"  Again, there was no answer.  "I can make--"  Tim looked over and saw that Tony had fallen asleep.  His mouth hung open a bit, and he breathed deep and even.  Carefully, Tim got up from the couch and quietly grabbed the groceries from the floor.  In the kitchen, he called Delilah.  "I should stay with him tonight," he told her.  "No, he's okay.  He'll be okay." 

 

\+ + +

 

_One year later._

 

He pulled his car up to the curb and gazed at the boat on a trailer parked in the driveway.  He could see Gibbs out there painting the port side of it.  When he car door slammed shut, Gibbs paused and climbed off the ladder.

 

"Lookin' good," Tony commented as he limped slowly up the driveway to get a better look.  He kept his eyes on the boat, admiring it up close.  Gibbs' handiwork had always fascinated him.  How he could transform a pile of lumber into this... It was impressive.  It really was.  Tony could feel Gibbs looking him up and down, searching him.  He knew he looked different and not quite as perfectly put together in his jeans and gym shoes and a hooded sweatshirt.  He chose not the confront that gaze directly, even though he knew there was a question lingering between them.  It was a question that would go unasked, and unanswered.

 

"So are you," Gibbs said.

 

"Hm?"  Tony finally looked him in the eye.

 

"You look good. That physical therapist keeping you honest?"

 

Tony had no reason to doubt the sincerity of Gibbs' comment, so he simply smiled.  "Honest as all get out, Boss."  The nickname came from habit, but it wasn't a habit he ever wanted to kick.  "Now give me one of those paint brushes."

 

Gibbs smirked and handed him the butt-end of one of the brushes.  "Start here.  It's low enough, you won't need the ladder.  Long, even strokes, DiNozzo."  Tony did as he was told, but Gibbs soon took hold of his wrist and guided his hand back and forth.  "Like that.  Long and even."  

 

 

 

**the end.**

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
